The Nothing Within

by Andy Giesler

  “Thank you, Runner Zeekl,” I answered, leaning on my staff, “but I’ll walk.”

  He waited a few heartbeats, breathing a little choppy-like. Then he asked, “You goin’ to Honeynock. Yeh?”

  “Yep.”

  “Okay. The cart’s right ’ere.” And he patted it loud to be sure I could find it.

  “Runner Zeekl, by the time I was five, I guess I’d walked the length of the World That Is a half dozen times. Truth is, I find life cramped in these walls. So while it’s real kind of you to offer the cart, I prefer to walk just the same.” The whole truth was that I snuck over the walls of Surecreek most nights to get some air and practice the Shepherd’s Dance. So I wasn’t as cramped by those walls as I might have been. But that didn’t help my argument, so I left it unsaid.

  Elder Drover Dannl, tromping up with the bleating stock, said in his rough old voice, raspy from calling after animals so very many years, “Runner Zeekl, don’t bust nothing over it. Let the girl walk if she cares to. No harm in it.”

  “They ride in the cart, Drover Dannl. To Honeynock. They ride in it.” Then he said real slow, like it was Elder Drover Dannl who had a soft head, he said, “That’s…what…the cart’s…for.”

  We could have spent the whole day disagreeing about how to move me to Market if Runner Aimis hadn’t showed up, his leather greaves creaking.

  “Aimis,” said Runner Zeekl, sounding all twisted up by now, “she won’t git in the cart! They ride the cart to Honeynock. Yeh? Why won’t she get in it?”

  “It’s okay, Zeekl. Let her walk. Let’s get going. You pull the cart for now, I’ll run ahead.”

  “But…but why we bringin’ the cart if she ain’t in it?”

  Runner Aimis grunted. “Because we always bring the cart to Honeynock.”

  “Oh,” said Runner Zeekl, sounding relieved as he picked up the poles and began to pull. “Yeh. We always bring the cart.”

  It was a sharp October morning with an unkind wind, and soon a stinging rain turned the roads to muck. I was headed somewhere I didn’t want to head, with two men who didn’t much care for me and one who didn’t know what to make of me, walking an easy road when I’d rather head through the woods.

  But even so, even with all that, to be outside the walls and in no trouble for it? That. That was a wondrous thing.

  And so we went to Market.

  5

  Market

  Strange as it seems, though I’d traveled all over the World That Is with Ma as a child, I’d never been to Market.

  Just as now, Market was the middle of nearly everything: of crafts, of trade, of Honeynock, and of just plain folks. But it wasn’t the middle for weavers. The middle for weavers was all over the World That Is, and most ’specially at its farthest round sides, snugged right up next to the Edge and the Void. Nobody never went on holy pilgrimage to Market. Market was the opposite of holy pilgrimage.

  As we had no weavers to watch over us, and as I was traveling with sensible folk, we followed sensible paths along the water. First, we followed the Crystalwash to the crossing at Dott, then we went down a throw along Slowbird Creek to the Scheiss, then we rolled up the Market Road for the rest of it. We were a good ways out—downwind, granted—when I was first introduced to Market, or rather to its smell. Though “smell” is too polite a word, really. And too feeble. This wasn’t just one smell. It was a whole flock of them.

  Those among you who’ve been to Market know what I mean. It smells of animal scat, of course, and so much of it you can hardly imagine. But that’s not a bad smell, really. It smells of wood smoke, and tanning, and butchery gone bad; of the Sheiss river that’s fouled far downstream, as honeydippers fill it with the leavings of nearly fifty-hundred of the People. It smells of every incense and herb and concoction that’s ever been, all those wondrous smells joining together in a truly unholy way.

  But whatever the smells are that gather together, it smells like Market. There’s just nothing else near the same.

  We were a good deal closer when the sounds came to us. First an unfamiliar clang that I’d later learn was a metalsmith’s anvil. Soon, the thump of builders hammering pegs into walls and the clack of masons pounding stones. Then the river’s rush of voices, so many voices I’d never heard the like before, all mixed in with grunting and bleating and honking and clucking.

  It’d been an awful long day of walking by the time we reached Market’s edge. We’d set out before sunrise, and now the cool of sunset was rolling across us. I hadn’t walked so long in years. My feet, unaccustomed to it now, were hot with blisters, and every joint in my body was making a fuss.

  It was a beautiful feeling.

  Runner Aimis led us down streets past endless clusters of folks, all of them out and talking, even so close to night. We walked for a long while through the babbling stink, the coolness drawing about us to make me shiver, then we came to a stop. Aimis pounded three times on a wooden door. After a moment somebody opened it.

  “Runner Aimis of Surecreek. Welcome,” said a young woman, by her voice not much older than me. “And this must be Apprentice Woodsmith Deborah.” To her credit, she didn’t scowl when she said it. “A meal’s waiting if you’ve hunger.”

  “That’s kind. We do,” said Aimis, though he didn’t say it as though it was any special kindness nor a surprise at all. He said it more as though he’d said it scores of times before, several times every October in his long years of running. He said it as though he’d just as soon be done with politeness and get to the more interesting business of eating.

  “And welcome, Drover…” She paused, unsure of his given name, I guess. “I expect you can find the stable first?”

  “Elder Drover Dannl. Thank you, Apprentice Helper. I can. I’ll meet you in the hall.”

  “Apprentice Deborah, I’m Apprentice Helper Lillit. If you’ve questions tonight, find me and ask.”

  Well.

  She offered.

  “What’s Honeynock?” I asked.

  She hesitated a moment, sounding as though she was biting on something, then she said, “I’m sure you’ll learn enough about that from the Humble Weaver.”

  Now that was a name I knew.

  It wasn’t likely to be the same Humble Weaver I’d met on pilgrimage with Ma so many years ago. That Humble Weaver was old as dust, with a voice to match. But whatever weaver had replaced her as the heart of the Order, I’d most likely know her from pilgrimage, too.

  And I wasn’t entirely sure whether that was a good thing, or a bad thing.

  Apprentice Lillit led us into a hall that sounded about the same size and shape as Surecreek’s Common hall, a room that smelled of competent cooking and a lake of nervous sweat. She led us to a table. Then with an, “Eat well and peace on you,” she was on her way, to do whatever it is an apprentice helper does.

  The room rustled with voices, most of them hushed. The watchers and drovers, no doubt, were tuckered and ready for food and bed. And the young crickets like me, no doubt, were trying to find an appetite as they listened to their hearts gushing in their ears and got used to Market’s smell, lesser though it was in the hall.

  The food was plentiful and good. There was chamomile to drink, and even honeywater, but I sipped on dandelion coffee, which I’ve always favored. I smelled mutton, stewed green tomatoes, acorn squash with sheep’s milk, corn muffins with honey, pickled beets, kraut, kimshee, and apple tarts still warm from the oven. I never cared for beets—they taste like despair—but the rest should have called to me. Yet I barely managed to choke down a mouthful of the mutton, which was slow cooked and quite tasty. I picked at the corner of an apple tart. Then I sat and listened to Runner Aimis and Runner Zeekl shove unimaginable handfuls of food down their gullets, hardly letting their teeth touch it, my belly churning at the thought of it. After a spell, Elder Drover Dannl joined us and did his part as well. If they paused for breath, I sure didn’t hear it.

  Finally, Runner Zeekl belched and slapped his leg. “Whelp. I guess
we leave ’em to the poking now?”

  Runner Aimis grunted. “Zeekl, mind your words.”

  “Mind what words?” Runner Zeekl asked, aggrieved. “We’re here for Honeynock, yeh? So we’ll git to sleepin’, and they’ll git to poking. Neh?”

  Aimis chewed and swallowed, then grunted again.

  “Yeh,” he said. “We’ll be off, Apprentice Deborah. Peace with you, and luck on you.” Though it sounded to me just a touch like he was wishing me neither.

  “Apprentice Deborah,” said Elder Drover Dannl as he stood, his bench squeaking.

  “Good luck, Deborah,” said Runner Zeekl as he stood, sounding as though he actually meant it. Then he chuckled, and whispered, “You know. With the poking and whatnot.”

  I thanked him. My guts twisted.

  Around the room I heard a chorus of the same farewells, most of them genuine, from a couple of dozen runners and drovers. And in return came a chorus of nervous, mumbled thank-yous and peace-with-yous.

  And then we were alone.

  6

  Humble Weaver

  It was quiet but for the nervous scooching of butts on benches and the groaning of anxious bowels. We sat that way for a few moments that seemed like quite a few more moments. Then somebody came shuffling into the room.

  Right away, I knew it was her.

  The same Humble Weaver I’d known all those years before. No new one had taken her place. So old even ten years ago that she couldn’t pilgrimage on her own two legs but was carried by helpers. So soft and feathery that I feared a gentle gust of wind might outright end her and blow her remains away, leaving nothing at all for us to burn at her wake. Yet here she was, still breathing, still at the heart of the Order, a decade older than ancient.

  She entered on her own two feet, one quiet and unsure step at a time, slowly, slowly, so we had a few more awful moments of nervous butt-scooching and bowel-groaning before she reached the front. Walked right past me, she did. She seemed to go even a little slower when she was beside me. She stirred the very gentlest of breezes. A weaver’s scent. It smelled like Ma.

  When she was finally up there at the center of the hall, a few children started tapping their feet in appreciation, thinking they should, but when the rest of us didn’t join them, they stopped. The Humble Weaver made a little sound that might have been clearing her throat or softly dying. Then she started to talk, so I figured it must have been her throat.

  “Peafe on you, and Grandmother Root fmile on you,” she said, her voice hardly louder than rubbing wool. She had an elder’s lisp from want of teeth, so she fpoke her words like viff…but I won’t pretend at her way of talking for you. I’ll let you imagine it yourselves as you listen to me.

  “Peace on you,” half of us half-mumbled back, the whole room together hardly louder than she was.

  “I am the Humble Weaver. You are girls and boys. Tomorrow you won’t be.

  “This night is at the center of your life. At the center of our community. At the center of the World That Is. What you will do tonight is more important than anything you have done. One of the most important things you will ever do. This is your Honeynock. Your Sweet Night. Our community’s survival. A gift you give us all.”

  She paused. Butts stopped scooching. Bowels kept groaning.

  “The girls among you are Hopefuls. The boys among you are Callers. Tonight you will join together. And in nine months, if Grandmother Root smiles on you, the World That Is will welcome a great gift.”

  Then she told us about the Needful Act. Like you’ve heard at Learning, but much, much slower, and much, much more serious, and a good touch less direct. Clear enough for us to get the general idea. But only just.

  As she explained it, making it out to be some dire burden with past generations all staring down at us in hopeful judgment, a girl farther down my table lost whatever little dinner she’d managed to stomach. Measured, confident steps flowed in from the edge of the room to tend to her, not a touch hurried, sounding as if they saw this sort of thing every night. Which maybe they did.

  The Humble Weaver’s moth-wing voice went fluttering right along without pause.

  Finally, after she’d not quite explained the Needful Act at remarkable length, she paused for a long while. Maybe to let it sink in, though I wondered again whether she might have gone and died on us. Then she gave us her parting words.

  “Honeynock, your Sweet Night, is for the Needful Act. It is not for friendship, nor for courtship, nor for love. If Grandmother Root smiles on one of you Hopefuls, then your child will come next summer, and your Caller will leave his home and join you in your village to be your mate. If She does not smile upon you, there’s nothing wrong in that. Not a whittle. But you won’t see your Caller again.

  “The Needful Act will happen in darkness. You will not see your Caller, nor your Hopeful. You may speak, but you are not to share your name. You are not to share your trade. You are not to share your village. You are not to share any news of yourself.”

  There was pitch silence. Somehow, even our bowels managed to hush and listen.

  Again, the Humble Weaver said, “You are not to share your name. You are not to share your trade. You are not to share your village. You are not to share any news of yourself.

  “And when you return to your villages, you will share none of this with your youngers. This is not their time to know. This is not your news to share.

  “This is how it must be done. This is how it has been done, for ten hundred years or more. You will give the gift. You will perform the Needful Act. Then you will be women and men, and you will have the deep gratitude of us all.

  “I thank you, as do we all. Peace on you, and may Grandmother Root smile upon you.”

  We sat quiet for a while as she slowly, slowly made her way back out of the room. Again, she might have paused beside me, though I guess her entire walk was one long pause. And again, she left the smell of Ma behind her.

  I heard a dozen or more soft, sure pairs of footfalls make their way into the room, scattered all among us. One familiar pair made its way toward me. Even so, I startled when Apprentice Helper Lillit’s hand touched my shoulder. “Come with me, Apprentice Deborah, to make ready.”

  Though I don’t remember it, I must have gone with her, because the next thing I recall is stepping into a small-feeling room with a low-sounding ceiling and the smell of candles, and another smell—a strange smell, a smell from Ma’s house, a smell that made me uneasy. “Welcome to your Sweet Room,” Lillit said.

  With her hand still on my shoulder to guide me, she led me to a small, soft cot and sat me on it. Then she pressed a cup into my hand, a cup with the room’s strange smell in it. “Drink the Strong Drink, Deborah. Drink it slow, but drink it all, and make yourself ready.”

  That’s when my heart started kicking at my chest like it does sometimes, like it didn’t belong there and was asking to be let out. Because I remembered now, remembered what that smell was, a smell from Mender Vernie’s ending, and from the ending of so many others. From the draft they drank. From the Goodafter Cup. It made no sense, to bring me here just to send me to the Pit, but my head wasn’t so much about sense-making just then as it was about howling and running from the room. I cried out and startled, but Lillit’s hands held both me and the cup, gentle and firm.

  So I did as Ma had taught me, for when something smothers you in worry and takes all your hope away. The Weaver’s Breath. Wish I knew why it helps. I suppose sometimes your thoughts are bound by cords of fear, and the Weaver’s Breath may loose them. It had helped me before, it would help me later in much worse things to come.

  One long, slow, calming breath.

  Then let loose of whatever fear is weighing on you.

  Then think “the World That Is” while you notice everything that’s happening around you, down to the silliest details.

  Details like the real and true smell of that cup. A smell from the Goodafter Cup, but only one of them. This smell by itself was pricklier than
the cup. Less gentle, and not one whispering that I should sleep forever. A smell, as I thought of it, that had been in Ma’s house other times, times when she wasn’t preparing somebody for the Pit. And there were other smells in this brew, too, musty herbs I knew from other drinks, Ma’s drinks that gave folks calm. Deeprose. Sow’s balls. Something else.

  That familiar smell wasn’t the Goodafter Cup. It was just an ingredient.

  “Don’t fret, Deborah,” Lillit said in a voice so soothing I guessed it had to be taught to her. “It’s all strange, I know. Was for me, too. But I drank the Strong Drink, and had my Honeynock, and now I’m a woman.” As she crouched by me, caressing my arm, my heart started only nudging real hard instead of kicking to break my ribs. Then she took my rough hand in hers, a soft and gentle hand that had probably never felt no hard tradework. She patted my hand and whispered real low, “The Humble’s talk, it can leave folks jumpy. I do know that. But I’ll tell you what. I can see a hardness on you. I bet you’ve faced sterner things than this.”

  Which, when she said it, I realized I had. And that gave me some hope.

  Her lamb’s-breath hand patted mine once more, then she kissed my cheek and stood. “Peace on you, Apprentice Woodsmith Deborah of Surecreek, and Grandmother Root smile upon you.”

  Then she blew out the candles, and her secret feet whispered from the room, and she closed the door behind her.

  7

  Honeynock

  Well, now I’ve done it. Just what I didn’t mean to. I can tell by the quiet out there. I’ve left the young ones fretting about Honeynock.